


In Truth, I Wanted to Take to the Skies With You... But My Body is Heavy, It Feels as Though I Am Stuck to the Ground.

by DreamoftheWild



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword
Genre: F/M, Hylia's Chosen Hero - Freeform, Rating May Change, The First Link, more tags to come
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:35:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27682321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamoftheWild/pseuds/DreamoftheWild
Summary: The story of the first chosen hero and the Goddess who lost him.
Relationships: Hylia/Link (Legend of Zelda)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 30





	In Truth, I Wanted to Take to the Skies With You... But My Body is Heavy, It Feels as Though I Am Stuck to the Ground.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to @Linked_Aurica for beta reading this fic!

_ Drip. _

_ Drip. _

_ Drip. _

The incessant noise of water drops won't stop, hasn't stopped for what felt like an eternity. Over time you'd think it would become like white noise, ignored but still present at the back of your mind, but it was ever present at the front of his attention; the slow, unsteady rhythm a type of torture itself. It fills the holes in the cracked cobblestone floors like it fills the cracks in his mind. It drips through the broken ceiling, a gift from the world above, meeting the pools growing beneath his dangling body. It assaults his sensitive ears, each drop feels like a crash of thunder against his temples and causes the ache that pervades right behind his eyes to feel ever more intense.

The sounds of his raspy breathing echoes off of the bare walls of his dark, dank cage, chest rattling beneath his sore ribs with sickness brought on by the harmful mold growing in small defects in the lime mortar. The stones pressed against his weary backside are cold, heartless, much like the people of the land he resides beneath, that he sacrificed his freedom for. 

_ How long had it been since they accused him of crimes they didn't commit? Because he was an easy target, the hero they didn't want? _ The burdens of the land he loved so dearly continued to suffocate him.

Time has no meaning inside the confines of his rusted, forgotten home. It is as if he is barricaded from the outside, in stasis while the rest of the world carries on without him. 

A high pitched ring of metal against metal disrupts his normal routine of disassociation. The heavy doors at the dungeon entrance are pushed open with a long, loud groan, previously taut chains dancing with gravity at the movement. He slightly lifts his neck, hoping to catch a glimpse of this intruder. The dungeon is one long hallway, his musty cell lying at the end facing the barred gates that led to civilization. Since his imprisonment, this entire wing of the dungeon was cleared and remained unused, making him the sole occupant.

He pulls weakly against the shackles holding his wrists, desperate to block out the loud noises reverberating in his ears. The pain in his head turns sharp, and he winces as his head drops, no longer strong enough to hold it up. His eyes stare miserably at the same spot on the floor. All he can do is listen to the mysterious person come closer.

  
The gate is locked tight once again, and soft footsteps pad quietly down the hall, carrying with it the sound of liquid sloshing around in an open container. As they get closer, he can hear gentle humming. He once again finds the strength to lift his head when the steps stop before his door.

A young maiden in peasant clothes stands before him, her face betraying her awe at the sight of him. Light blonde braids frame her face beneath her hood. She balances a wooden bowl of water on her hip as she bends slightly to unlock the chains holding the door shut. 

He grits his teeth with a pained hiss at the racket she causes, wishing internally for the noise to stop. He must have made a noise aloud, for she stops midway through her task and looks up at him. At his expression, she moves slower, grabbing the chain before it can drop fully and lowering it by bending her knees to deposit on the ground with a soft clink.

A bit of the water in her bowl spills over the rim as she readjusts her stance, spilling on her brown dress and causing her to huff briefly in annoyance. She steps towards him after brushing her skirt off. The door is left open behind her, and he eyes her warily. 

It was not the first time someone had visited him, he would not be alive if that were the case. No, servants from the castle came in to bathe and feed him, but those visits were few and far between, and once or twice he thought they had abandoned him for good. However, none had been as beautiful as the one standing before him now. He almost thought he was hallucinating, the sickness finally claiming his sanity.

It was true, her eyes hold a spark of passion that no woman of poverty possessed, and her dress, although made of the cheapest materials, is unmarred with dirt or tear. Her gaze meets his stare when she is close enough to reach out and touch him if she wished. 

"I'm sorry," she whispers so quietly that he believes only he with his sensitive ears could have heard it; and she truly seems to mean it. The shine in her eyes dim and her features turn forlorn. 

She dips a rag into the bowl and squeezes it out as best as she can with one hand. He leans greedily into her touch when she presses it against his forehead, sighing gratefully at the relief it gives to his fevered skin. Despite the coldness of the underground, his face shone with swear. Her eyebrows scrunch into a worried expression, and her soft hand replaces the cloth on his forehead. 

"You're burning up." She says quietly. She isn't quite whispering, but her voice is still low, as if the pests in the walls were eavesdropping on their conversation. It is most likely a habit, he assumes. No one was allowed to talk to him. He's too busy commiting the feeling of her skin to memory to listen to her musings.

He can't stop the whine that escapes his lips when she pulls her hand back, dipping into the bowl to grab the floating fabric left there. His throat burns from dehydration and disuse, and it sounds more like a garbled groan. She seems to ponder a singular thought for a moment, and then brings the bowl up to his chapped lips.

"Drink," she urges, tilting it forward minutely. He gulps it down, Adam's apple bobbing with every desperate swallow. He drinks it down so fast that she has to pull it away. 

"Slowly," she warns, voice soft, "you'll choke." He isn't listening, rational thought gone from his head. He leans forward, grunting at her as a plea, solely intent on getting more water to satiate his thirst. Words were hard, they swam around in his muddled brain, noises would suffice. His hands shake, rattling the chains which ring like off-key chimes. 

She sighs, giving in and letting him drink at his own pace. She cards her fingers through his tangled, oily hair while he slurps it down. His hair was long, hanging down past his shoulders, a testament to how long they had held him here. She knows he isn't listening, but she whispers to him nonetheless.

"You shall be free soon," she says, "Your sacrifice knows no bounds, and for your courage you will be praised."

When the bowl is empty, and his mouth is no longer dry, he relaxes into her touch, leaning the weight of his head against her hands. She hums a soft melody, a ballad, as she continues to run her fingers through his hair, working through the knots.

He doesn't know when he drifts off into sleep. True to her word, when he wakes, with a clear mind no longer addled with sickness, he is faced by a group of men with familiar faces.

"Link," one says.

"Link, the hero!" Another in awe.

"Come out into the light of day, the demon king's army fast approaches, " the leader of the group, a noble type, speaks up.

Link's icy glare meets the gathering. His gravelly voice cracks from the strain of being used for the first time in a long time. He takes a short breath and responds.

"My own people, you who had said you had no need for a hero, come to me now that it is most convenient for you?" He sounds bitter, and rightfully so. If he had the energy he would spit at their feet. But despite the anger in his grieving soul, he bears no hatred or ill will towards his people. 

"I am weak, I can no longer run," he continues, voice wavering slightly, "My sword is broken, I cannot fight."   
  
"You are the only one who can help us!" One cries desperately, and Link scoffs.

"Relying on the one you cast aside, he who only wanted to see the land prosper against the enemy. You must truly be desperate."

A young man standing at the back of the group approaches, a sheathed broadsword held delicately in his open palms. He kneels before the chained hero, presenting it. 

"Link, our hero," he starts, nervous and slow, "It is my honor to present to you this weapon. I have personally tempered and tended to it these last four years."

_ Four years? _

Link's gut squeezes with sudden anxiety, making him feel he had suffered a hard blow. Four years? Four years of his life, wasted away in a cesspit of misery and gloom. He carefully trains his face, hiding the shock in his features.

  
"Even if I have no choice, I will defend this land, " he confidently announces. The smiles they give him do not alleviate the dread pooling in the cavity where his heart lay. 

_ And here I had thought that I would be able to sleep in peace.  _

Link's shackles are broken, one by one, and his weak, shivering body falls limply into the impatiently waiting arms of his captors. He reaches out a shaking arm, grasping the hilt of the proffered sword. 

_ But, if you wish to wake the lion... _

He sets his feet firmly on the ground, pushing away from the grasp of the men. He stands tall in the midst of those who wronged him, double-crossed him in the worst of ways. He raises the point of his blade skyward. 

_ Then give him  _ **fangs** _! _

**Author's Note:**

> More to come soon!


End file.
